


A Case Of Blackmail

by amaronith



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-09-03
Updated: 2009-09-03
Packaged: 2017-10-11 03:23:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/107806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaronith/pseuds/amaronith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Funny thing, what a letter can do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Case Of Blackmail

**Author's Note:**

> A somewhat of an expansion of my "OK2BGAY" drabble, which should give you a clue as to what happens here, yeah? *grin* Some details were borrowed from an absolutely fabulous Jooster fic (which can be found at the following location for those who are interested: http://triedunture.livejournal.com/500471.html ), and, as always, thanks to Polaris who helped edit this. It was also written for her, because everything I write is for her in this fandom.

Watson frowned at the letter in his hand, at the sharp, pointed script he was sure he had seen somewhere before.

"Holmes?" Watson turned to face his friend, who was doing something with his chemistry set. "Holmes, have you read this?"

"Hm? Read it to me, if you would Watson?"

Watson cleared his throat. " 'Dear Mister Holmes: I write to you as a helpless man with nowhere to turn, for the matter about which I need your help cannot be written down. I shall call on you at six this evening.' Signed S.H. How many fellows could possibly have the same initials as you, Holmes?"

"I can think of several." He carefully poured one solution into another, swirling the beaker gently. "Look closer, it should be familiar to you."

Watson peered closer at the letter. "Ah, yes. Now I recognize Inspector Hopkins's handwriting. He has a very particular way of crossing his t's and looping his y's and g's. I was sure I had seen it before."

"Brilliant deduction, Watson." Holmes said sincerely, flashing a smile at his friend.

Watson grinned back, pride swelling in his breast. He always treasured when Holmes complimented him. He grew serious though, at the thought of what the letter implied. "What on Earth could Hopkins need us for that he could not simply write it down?"

Holmes set down his beaker as the clock on the mantel chimed six and put on his dinner jacket with some flourish. "I do believe we are about to find out."

Moments later, Inspector Stanley Hopkins stood nervously in their doorway, clutching his bowler hat in a death grip. "Mister Holmes, Doctor Watson..."

"Come in, Inspector, come in." Holmes made a motion to the settee. "Have a seat, and tell us what is so important that you dare not write it down?"

Hopkins took a deep breath and sank into the nearest chair, looking pained. "This is a highly delicate matter, Mister Holmes. Lives are at stake, and thus I must demand the utmost discretion from both you and Doctor Watson."

"Clearly not a case for the masses then, eh Watson?" Holmes sounded amused.

"Please, Mister Holmes, a man's life is at risk!" Hopkins snapped at the detective. "I need your word!"

Holmes looked a bit stunned for a moment before his face grew serious. "As with all our clients, Inspector, you have our discretion."

"Agreed, Inspector," Watson said, sitting in his arm chair.

Hopkins took a deep breath. "You see, Mister Holmes, I am in love."

"Well, congratulations, I assume, Hopkins, but what does that have to do with anything?"

Hopkins held up a hand. "Allow me to finish. I am in love with a man."

Holmes shared a looked with Watson, and arched an elegant brow. "Do go on."

Hopkins looked down at his hands where they still clutched at his hat. "He is a distinguished gentleman that I met through a club that caters to gentlemen of my persuasion. He goes by Vincent, and we have been seeing each other for some months now."

"He goes by Vincent? So that is not his real name?" Watson leaned forward, curious.

Hopkins nodded. "The club, you see, requires false names and masks, to protect against potential blackmailers. I'm known as Timothy there," he added, almost absently.

"...you've been seeing this fellow for some months now, and you don't even know his real name? Yet you profess your love for him?" Holmes had pinched the bridge of his nose in irritation. "Inspector-"

"I never said I didn't know his true identity. Honestly, Mister Holmes, I know you don't hold us at the Yard in high esteem as far as our intelligence goes, but I'm not the youngest to ever be promoted to Inspector for no reason. His identity is not mine to reveal, and I'm sure it is of no importance to the case."

"And what case would that _be_, Inspector?" Holmes asked, blandly. "You still have yet to actually get to the _point_."

"Oh. Right. You see, Mister Holmes, I...I must confess I wrote him a love letter." Hopkins blushed all the way to his ears.

"...allow me to venture a guess; the letter has fallen into the wrong hands, and is being used for nefarious purposes."

"I wrote it using our real names." Hopkins bit his lower lip, looking pained. "Mister Holmes, you have to help him! If it gets out, he'll be ruined! He's well off, but he doesn't have the kind of money this fiend is asking for, and if he is discovered and arrested because of my foolishness I'll never forgive myself, Mister Holmes! I'll positively _die_!"

"Oh, calm yourself, Hopkins. There is no need for hysterics."

"So you'll help me?" Hopkins looked at them both beseechingly. "_Please_, I beg of you, not as an officer, but as a man!"

"Inspector, _please_." Holmes sighed, frowning. "I'm surprised you're not more worried about yourself."

"Oh, I don't care what happens to me, it's all my fault to begin with. I deserve to be caught for being so foolish."

Watson reached out to grip Hopkins's shoulder. "You should not be so hard on yourself, Hopkins. Love can make a man do many foolish things."

"An unfortunate thing. Tell me, Hopkins, do you know who is blackmailing your Vincent?"

Hopkins gave Holmes a nod. "In a way. I could point him out to you."

"Oh?"

"I only know the name he uses at the club." Hopkins looked apologetic. "You can see my dilemma."

"Yes," Holmes put a finger to his lips in thought. "You will bring us to this...club, yes?"

Hopkins looked sheepish. "I understand if the idea makes you uncomfortable, Mister Holmes, but it's the only way. Your story will be that you are friends of mine, new to the city."

"Comfort is hardly the issue here, Hopkins." Holmes frowned. "You said we shall have to wear masks?"

Two simple domino masks were handed to Holmes and Watson as Hopkins grinned. "I have already prepared. Gentlemen, shall we go? We can go over your false names in the cab ride there."

–

The club ended up being a small, respectable looking building on Church Street, nestled in between a tobacconists' and a perfume shop. Holmes stepped into the foyer of the club, gray eyes casting around the room as an elderly gentleman took their hats, coats and walking sticks.

"Names, sirs?"

"Timothy. My associates are Bernard," He nodded to Watson, "and Reginald." He indicated Holmes with a tilt of his head.

"Very good sirs."

Hopkins put on his mask and indicated that Holmes and Watson should do the same. "The fellow I wish to point out to you tonight goes by the name of Terrence here."

Homes gave a thoughtful hum as the door opened and he looked around the room, hand slipping absently into Watson's as eyes guarded by masks turned to look at them, and Hopkins (or, rather, Timothy) was greeted fondly by several people.

"Ah, Timothy! Where is your Vincent tonight?" An elder gentleman asked jovially as he and his companion eyed Holmes and Watson. "They are never seen apart, you see."

Hopkins gave the men a sad, but very fetching smile. "He was feeling unwell tonight, so I thought I would bring some friends of mine with me instead." He looked around. "Have you two seen Terrence tonight?"

"Ah, last I saw him was near the piano." The other gentleman said, giving Holmes and Watson a knowing smile. "Though I doubt you'll get much out of him. He's known for being very particular about his partners. Why, since he started coming here, he has yet to actually _have_ a partner."

"That won't be a problem," Holmes replied smoothly, pressing a little closer to Watson's side. "Bernard and I are..._exclusive_."

The two men nodded, gazing at each other fondly through their masks. "Just like Walt and me, here. Going on forty years, we've been together."

Watson glanced at Holmes, whose hand was still interlaced with his own. "H-, err, Reginald..."

"Bernard, my heart, be a dear and wait for me at the bar, won't you? I won't be but a moment." Holmes kissed the back of his hand before going off with Hopkins.

Watson blushed brightly, to the amusement of Walt and his companion, and he headed over to the bar as Holmes had insisted in spite of the protest lurking in the back of his throat. Holmes was just _acting_, he told himself as he ordered a half a pint. He was not being _serious_ with his actions. While Watson _did_ harbor such feelings for Holmes (and he had since the moment he laid eyes on the man, if he was perfectly honest with himself), he was positive that Holmes saw him only as a friend and nothing more. Watson watched as Hopkins and Holmes made their way over to a thin, wiry fellow who seemed, to Watson's eye, to resemble a rodent. A suitable look for a blackmailer, he thought as he took a sip of his draft.

"Hello." A fair haired, dark eyed young man sat close to Watson and flashed  him a charming, dimpled smile. "Call me James."

"I go by Bernard." Watson gave him a brief smile before returning his attention to Holmes.

"I haven't seen you in here before."

"I'm new in town and am here with a friend of mine." Watson frowned as Holmes slipped out of view.

"Oh? So you're available, then?" James rested his hand on Watson's thigh with a coy smile.

Watson blinked down at the hand on his thigh, surprised for a moment by the forwardness of the young man before he gently removed the offending hand with a smile. "I'm afraid not. I am rather happy with Reginald."

James pouted attractively. "Oh, what a shame. You seem just my type, too...."

"Yes, and isn't it lucky that I got him first?" Holmes said as he draped an arm around Watson's shoulders and stole a sip of his beer.

"For _you_, perhaps." James sulked. "Here with Timothy, are you? And where is Vincent?" James looked down his nose at Hopkins.

Hopkins returned the look with an icy smile. "He is home tonight, which is where we are going. Are you ready, Bernard?"

Watson stole his drink back from Holmes and drained it before paying for it. "Good evening then, James."

Holmes linked their arms together and they followed Hopkins out of the club.

Once outside, Holmes released Watson and took him by the arms. "Watson, go back to Baker Street with Hopkins. I will be along later."

"What? But- Holmes-!"

"Go." Holmes tipped his hat to Hopkins and nearly lifted Watson off his feet and into the cab.

The cab took off as Holmes vanished into an alleyway. Watson gazed after him, scowling. "Go, he tells me, as though I would rest easy tonight knowing he's probably doing something horribly dangerous."

"And maybe even a touch stupid?" Hopkins sounded amused.

"For such a brilliant man he can be, yes." Watson grumbled. "And yet he is surprised when I worry." The cab pulled to a stop at Baker Street some minutes later. "I can assure you, however, that the next time we contact you Inspector, it shall be with good news."

"I look forward to it, Doctor. Good night." Hopkins knocked on the roof of the cab and it drove off as Watson turned to make his way up to the rooms he and Holmes shared in Baker Street.

He and Holmes.

Holmes and he.

Watson paced about the sitting room, knuckles still tingling where Holmes had kissed them, his skin still burning from where their fingers had brushed when Holmes took his drink. Watson knew that Holmes spared nothing when it came to his disguises, but his actions in the club had seemed so smooth, so natural, as though he hadn't had to give them any thought at all.

It made Watson think (or at least, it made him hope) that maybe Holmes had feelings that coincided with Watson's own.

The thought both thrilled and terrified him.

He continued to smoke and pace, turning thoughts and ideas over in his mind, new thoughts replacing old ones as fast as Watson discarded them before he finally gave up his pacing and settled down on the settee. He would ask Holmes about it when he came back.

–

Morning broke to find Watson asleep on the settee and covered with Holmes' favored afghan, and no sign that the man had even returned home last night. Fantasies numbered one through forty seven dissolved to ashes in Watson's mind. Watson rubbed the grit from his eyes and stretched, ringing Mrs. Hudson for breakfast. He would change his clothing after he had eaten.

"Mrs. Hudson," he asked when she brought up the food tray, "Have you seen Holmes at all since I came home last night?"

"Very briefly, Doctor." She poured him a cup of coffee. "He came in after you had fallen asleep, and covered you with that blanket. Then he left this morning just as I was waking up." She frowned, worriedly. "He's not working on a dangerous case again, is he?"

"I don't know if it would be considered _dangerous_ per se, since he would have asked me for-" Watson paused, his coffee halfway to his mouth. No, Holmes wouldn't have requested Watson's back up if the man was going under cover.

"Doctor?"

Watson gave her a smile before turning his attention to breakfast, which looked suddenly less appetizing than it had just a few moments before. "I'm sure he's fine, Mrs. Hudson."

"He always is." She sighed, and patted Watson's shoulder before vanishing out of the room and down the steps.

Watson stuck a forkful of eggs into his mouth dejectedly.

Breakfast just wasn't the same without Holmes.

–

Holmes didn't return for four days. The evening of the fourth day had Watson smoking his pipe, staring into the fire with the growing fear that Holmes had gone and gotten himself killed (_really_ killed this time!) and that the next knock on the door would be someone from the Yard to tell him so.

The person who entered his sitting room, however, was definitely not from the Yard. He was dressed in the garb of a shabby workman. "I tell you, Watson, this case is becoming more and more curious."

Watson could only gape. "Holmes?"

The man turned and flashed Watson a quick smile before returning to his task of cleaning up. "Of course."

Watson wanted to shake Holmes for all he was worth, even as small part of his mind was reenacting a scene from his fantasies where Watson licked the bend of Holmes' elbow, which the rolled up cuffs revealed quite nicely. "Well? What did you find out, man?"

"If your inquires could wait until supper, Watson? I find that I rather crave Mrs. Hudson's cooking after spending the better part of the week in the face of far inferior food."

"Oh, yes of course." Watson bit his lip as he watched Holmes slowly appear from under the garb of the workman, like a butterfly from a cocoon. It was a rare occasion his companion wanted to actually partake of food, and Watson was not about to press the man until he had seen with his own eyes that Holmes had eaten.

"Thank you, my dear friend. If you'll excuse me." With another flash of a smile, Holmes vanished into his rooms and Watson resisted the urge to bang his head against the wall.

–

"Our blackmailer's real name," Holmes said as he took a small bite of fowl, "Is Trevor Wembley. He resides in a shabby boarding house of ill repute, and has no lock box. The letter in question is kept in his safety deposit box at the bank."

Watson frowned around his fork before he removed it from his mouth to point it at Holmes. "Meaning we can't get to the letter before the night of the transaction."

"Exactly." Holmes, having eaten barely half of his meal, lit a cigarette and scowled.

"That was where you were these past few days? Following this Wembley fellow?"

"Yes."

Watson pushed his food around his plate. "Holmes, about that night at the club..."

"Hm?"

"The way you acted, it was as though you had been to such a place before."

Holmes gave him a long look. "And if I had?"  
Watson shifted, uncomfortable. "I just want to know one thing, Holmes."

"And what is that, Watson?"

"Did you mean any of it?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Our relationship going into that club was never discussed, and yet you acted... you said we were exclusive, and that I was yours. Was that just acting?"

"You do not wish for me to answer such a question, Watson."

"Don't I?"  
Holmes gave him a pleading look. "I have far more at stake than you do, Watson. Do not ask me that."

"If you think that I would think less of you, you are sorely mistaken." Watson felt his chest tighten. What did this mean? "Or do you not trust me?"

"Trust has nothing to do with it!" Holmes snapped. "I trust you with my life, and you know it!"

"Do I?" Watson got to his feet. "For heaven's sake, Holmes, I was a military man! I don't care if you're an invert!"

"_I do_," Holmes hissed at him. "This conversation is _over_."

Watson watched as Holmes stormed into his room and slammed the door before he buried his face in his hands as the rest of his fantasies crumbled, and his worst fears came true.

–

Watson sat in his chair and stared into the fire. It had been two days since the argument and in that ime he and Holmes had not said a word to one another. Never before had Watson felt a loss so keenly as he did now. Well, no, that was not so. The last time he felt this way was after Holmes had vanished at Reichenbach and his beloved Mary had passed. He had not a soul left to him on this mortal coil before Lestrade asked him to be a police surgeon. Those years had been hellish, but at least Watson had not been forced to suffer through having Holmes close enough to touch. Now he could not because of his foolish mistake. It had only been two days, and Watson was not sure he could take much more of this torture.

Hopkins showed up at half past twelve, and Watson could not have been more relieved.  "Hello Inspector." He gave Hopkins a smile.

"Hello, Doctor. Mister Holmes, I know when the exchange will be." He bit his lower lip nervously. "We have until Friday to come up with a way to get that letter back!"

Watson frowned in thought. "That gives us two days."

"Well?" Hopkins sat down on the settee and leaned forward eagerly. "What's the plan?"

"The letter is being kept in Wembley's safety deposit box at the bank." Holmes said from around his pipe. "We cannot get to it until the evening of the transaction, and only if we know where that will be."

"I can tell you that." Hopkins smirked. "This fellow isn't very smart, I can tell you that much. The alleyway next to the club is where the transaction will take place, at ten o'clock Friday evening."

"Which is where we will lie in wait!" Holmes turned to Watson. "You will, of course, bring your revolver, Watson?"

"I-er-yes, of course." Watson wanted to be angry that those were the first words Holmes had spoken to him in two days, but he was so grateful that Holmes had broken the silence between them that he said nothing at all about the subject. _Not in front of Hopkins_, he told himself.

"I shall meet you there, then." Hopkins got to his feet, giving Holmes and Watson a relieved smile. "Thank you again so much..."

"Thank us when we have the letter safely in our keeping, Inspector. Anything could go wrong until then."

Hopkins left soon after, and Watson watched as Holmes returned to his index. "...are you speaking to me again?"

"I was under the impression, my dear Watson, that it was _you_ who was not speaking to _me_," was Holmes' frosty answer.

"Holmes, you haven't spoken a word to me in two days! You didn't even try!"

Holmes shut his index with a sharp intake of breath. "Watson, what is it that you want from me? You want to know if I am an invert? Yes, I am an invert. Are you quite happy?"

"...no." Watson pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "Holmes, you really are one of the most difficult people I have ever met!" At Holmes' rude noise, Watson looked up. "I've been working myself up into knots trying to figure out how you feel for me, if it is simply friendship, or if you desire me for a lover."

"And what if I do, Watson? What then? I am not willing to risk your friendship over something so-"

Watson crossed the room in two quick strides and kissed Holmes' forehead, cradling the man's face in his hands. "Holmes, come what may, I shall _always_ be your friend."

"Watson..."

Watson smiled at him. "Would knowing that I care for you, that I would have you for my own, make this any easier for you?"

"Yes. No." Holmes looked pained. "Watson, I cannot do this. Not now."

Watson blinked. "Because of the case?"

"Yes."

"Then we'll talk more about it after the case." Watson felt the pressure that had been building in his chest ease away. Holmes felt the same.

_Holmes felt the same._

–

Friday came far more quickly than Watson had expected, and he found himself with his back pressed to the wall of the club as he, Holmes, and Hopkins waited for their mark. The time, Watson noted, was one minute to ten.

"Watson," Holmes breathed from where he was pressed, most distractingly, against Watson's side, "I want you to pay close attention, as we are to strike as soon as Wembley reveals the letter."

Watson nodded, and steeled himself against the pleasurable feeling of Holmes' breath against his ear. It was something he had much practice in doing, and yet he found himself still driven to distraction by their closeness. "Holmes-"

"Ah, our man arrives on the scene!" Holmes gripped at Watson's arm, eyes bright with the thrill of the hunt. A second, much larger shadow appeared some moments later.

"You're late." Wembley said, and Watson found he even _sounded_ like a rodent.

"I had things to do. Unlike you, I make my way honestly."

Watson frowned. He _knew_ that voice. He would swear on it. The man was rasping it deliberately, but Watson could hear familiar tones in it.

"We all gotta earn our way in the world. I'll do things my way, and you'll do things yours. You have the money?"

"Do you have the letter?" the man countered.

"I have your precious letter right here." Wembley held up a folded piece of paper, and at that moment Watson and Holmes sprang into action. Holmes darted forward and grabbed the paper as Watson pressed the barrel of his revolver to the base of the man's skull. "What-?!"

"I don't suggest that you move, Mister Wembley, as my companion has a bit of a trigger finger," Holmes said coolly. "Inspector, if you would be so kind as to read this, and assure us that it is, in fact, your letter?" He handed it to Hopkins, who gave a cry of relief when he opened it.

"Yes, this is it. Thank you so much, Mister Holmes!"

"Holmes?" Wembley was shaking. "Sherlock Holmes?"

"Mister Wembley, allow me to give you a small bit of advice. Learn an honest trade. You are not clever enough for the nuances of blackmail."

"I will, I swear on my mum's grave I will!"

Holmes made a disgusted noise. "You can let him go, Watson."

Watson lifted the gun and Wembley ran off, nearly tripping over himself as he ran past the large man, who still had yet to be identified. "...I told you to stay out of this," he was murmuring to Hopkins.

"I could not let you suffer because of my folly-"

"It was no folly of yours; it was I who should have taken better care-"

"As touching as this all is, I assure you, this is not the place for such things."

Hopkins blinked at Holmes and Watson, as thought remembering that they were there in the alleyway with him and his lover, and flushed. "I-ah-yes, right, of course. Thank you again, Mister Holmes! If there's any way I can repay you, any way at all-"

"That is hardly necessary, Inspector, thank you-" Holmes stopped when a large hand was held out to him.

"I owe you thanks as well, Holmes."

"_...Gregson_?" Watson couldn't stop the surprised whisper as he recognized the voice. Gregson? Tobias Gregson was Hopkins' lover?

Gregson's smile was a mere quirk of his lips. "I thank you too, Doctor Watson."

Watson shook himself and shook Gregson's hand. "Think nothing of it, my good fellow."  
"I think plenty of it, Doctor."

"Yes yes, this is all well and good, but really, we must be going. Take better care of your correspondence in future." Holmes straightened his gloves. "Come, Watson."

"Evening, gentlemen." Watson tipped his hat to the two before following Holmes out of the alley. 

–

"Watson," Holmes said as they safely settled into their rooms in Baker Street, "If you should ever feel the insane need to write me a love letter, please do me a favor and refrain."

Watson watched Holmes stretch his long legs out and cross them at the ankle. "Now, Holmes, why would I do that?" Holmes looked over at him then, and Watson would swear a look of hurt passed across his regal features for barely a second before they shuttered back into impassiveness, and Watson smiled. "We live together after all. Anything I have to say I could simply tell you."

"Is that so?"

"Oh yes." Watson got up from his armchair and walked around to the back of Holmes' chair, wrapping his arms around the man from behind. "Like, for example, I love you."

Holmes reached up an elegant, long fingered hand to clasp Watson's own. "Watson..." He turned to face Watson, and was startled when Watson pulled him into a kiss. He shivered and sighed into it, his hands moving of their own accord to twine his fingers into Watson's hair. "...There is danger in this, Watson."

"I know." Watson pressed his forehead to Holmes', hands cradling the man's jaw. "But we have an advantage."

"Oh?"

"I was married, and you have been written as 'a brain without a heart'." Watson smirked. "You can't possibly tell me you weren't thinking of using those two facts to our advantage?"

"I wasn't thinking of it, because I did not think that this would _happen_, my dear Watson." Holmes smiled at him then. "...you, it would seem, were."

"I could only fantasize, Holmes."

"I hope the reality can meet your expectations, Watson." Holmes smirked against Watson's mouth as Watson drew Holmes out of the chair and toward his bedroom. 

Watson had no reply to that, other than the gentle click of Holmes' bedroom door as he closed it behind them.


End file.
